austin universe prose project gets a little bigger

Hey guys, here's another addition to the AUPP from Jeff Barnyard Daily. He's got some magic up his sleeves, yes he does. And please please please (as James Brown would say), don't go, send some more material, all you happy campers out there. Thanks.

p.s. the reading order goes me, Erin, anonymous, and Jeff

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

Cuba Gooding Sr. wrang his hands until he discovered the method of hula hoops. Crack open the plastic, and sand pours out.

--

The America she knew was quickly fading. She hailed a cab and when she finally flagged one down the backseat had used condoms and the smell of b.o.

"Take me to 21st and Main," she said.

Her heart was racing. The museum had brought back painful memories. Why did she go and stare at the Rothko's? Why did she feel swallowed up?

--


topics and suggestions for future prose:

museums
hearing America singing
heat
Hieronymus Bosch
coffee shops
points of origin
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops
vinyl records
cowboy boots
Spain
math equations
seagulls

Anonymous poster number 1 for the Austin Universe Prose Project, holy schlamoley

Thanks to the anonymous poster who gives us the next phase of the Austin Universe Prose Project. Also, it's really great to see Erin's Austin World Poem Project taking off. Congrat's Erin, and I can only hope my tiny baby can grow to the size of yours. Alright, here goes, original prose piece followed by Erin Vaughan's followed by anonymous number 1. Cool, daddios.

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

Cuba Gooding Sr. wrang his hands until he discovered the method of hula hoops. Crack open the plastic, and sand pours out.

--
and here are some suggestions and topics for all you other eager beavers out there:

museums
hearing America singing
heat
Hieronymus Bosch
coffee shops
points of origin
vinyl records
cowboy boots
Spain
math equations
seagulls
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops

Austin Univers Prose Project update

Hey there fellow starbrights, Erin Vaughan's already replied (and so has someone else; who can it be? I'm not telling yet) to the AUPP request. Hers is an inspired piece of grand prose. Me like. Also, her suggestions for you future posters are at the bottom of the post. Also also, any anonymous posters out there need only post a comment and you too can be included in this most historic of endeavors, plus I'll blow kisses to you across the interweb. Great!

here's the genesis paragraph:

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

suggestions:
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops

Austin Universe Prose Project

Hey, to follow in Erin's footsteps, I've decided to enact a gigantic (I hope) prose project. Not long ago, I asked a frequent commenter and great friend of the blog, Kat, to suggest some topics for a prose poem I could write. Little did she, or I, know that it would lead to this universe spanning splash of prose masterpiece. So, in the spirit of the initial request of prose poetry, I will submit my piece followed by six topics for the next person to write from (the person does not need to use all six subject, but they are jump-off points for anyone who needs help in choosing what to write about). So here is the piece I wrote with the suggestions Kat sent before the prose. I'm also sending out an email to any worthy aspirants who want to get in on this sweet sweetness, and if you receive the email, send it along to your friends and enemies to see if they have anything to add. Okay? Okay. Without further ado, here's a word from your mother.

Kat's suggestions:

museums
hearing America singing
heat
Hieronymus Bosch
coffee shops
points of origin

prose piece titled:

Prose Katherine

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.